


Café Roma

by abbynormalj



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Fem SnowBaz, SnowBaz, also this is in America, art now included!, because I don't know anything about England sorry folks, because we always need more wlw, because what would they be without that, bi Fiona Pitch, coffee shop AU, fem!SnowBaz, lesbian Baz Pitch, oblivious Simone, pining Baz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj
Summary: People always ask Baz to watch their things in her favorite coffee shop. Despite the fact that she goes out of her way to look like she doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Because she doesn’t want to talk to anyone... Right?But then the prettiest, rattiest looking girl asks Baz to watch her stuff (Baz’s gay heart nearly betrays her dignity.) When she returns, with food, she introduces herself as Simone and offers Baz some fries and a bit of conversation.





	1. fries

**Author's Note:**

> my spotify playlist for this fic:
> 
> [Cafe Roma Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/abatha123/playlist/3UH3dhs2L4LX0PDV5VlYNM?si=taj60ayWQPqj8_y1GSqgAA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interruption, a conversation, and an insult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first foray into fic writing in years, but I've had so much fun in the Carry On fandom that I just. Had to write. So now this wlw coffee shop au exists.

**Baz**

 

I love Cafe Roma.

It’s a few minutes walk from my apartment and has free wifi and a side room further from the front door that’s great for sitting and working for hours on end with a coffee or pastry. I spend a few hours here nearly every weekend, and sometimes study here on weekdays as well. It’s my favorite place to write. I live with my aunt, who loves to bother me endlessly, which does not lend itself to the focus I require when I write.

I set up my laptop at my favorite table, furthest from the entry door. It can get cold in that part of the cafe, especially during winter. Winter is bad here. I chose this stupid little town to get away from my father and his expectations, but the snow has me seriously rethinking that choice.

“Pumpkin Mocha Breve for Baz!” they call my order from the front of the shop. I contemplate going up to get it, but there have been a rash of laptop robberies from coffee shops recently. It’s a small town, normally with very little crime, so the recent thefts are big local news. Glancing around the shop, it seems early enough that there are very few people around. I should be okay to pick up my drink. I dash to the counter, nod to barista, and am back in my seat with my laptop in moments, not a thief in sight. I can finally settle down with my sugar-masked caffeine and write. So I do.

Until I am rudely interrupted.

 

 

 

 

I obviously come here often. I have a preferred table. Most of the baristas know my name and order. There are other regulars I know by sight.

Now, all that being said, I have never once spoken to any of these people other than to order my drink. I have a chronic resting bitch face and tend to overdress for small town America. I may not like the cold, but I take pride in my frigidity. I wear earbuds when I write, both to listen to music, and to stave off conversation. Despite all these measures, people have asked me to watch their things while they go to the loo or order their food no less than four times in the last few weeks (since the report of the thefts.)

I cannot fathom why anyone would find me either friendly enough or trustworthy enough to watch their things when all I give them when they ask is a grunt and a frown. And yet.

But there are fewer people in the cafe today due to the weather, so when I settle down to write, I expect to enjoy several uninterrupted hours of work. (Foolishly.)

Then she knocks on my table. What a beautiful fucking numpty.

 

* * *

 

 

**Simone**

 

I know I’m getting hangry. But my friend Gareth had his laptop stolen last week. I can’t afford to buy a new laptop. And if it got stolen, I would lose about a year’s worth of work because I never fucking back up my poor computer (an extra horrible habit for a film and photography major.) I’ll have to ask someone to watch my stuff for me.

I glance around the shop for someone to ask. There are a few other people around who look like they’re students as well. Any of them could be good options. There also seem to be a couple of tutoring groups with middle school kids. I don’t really want to disturb them. Or interact with preteens, honestly. My eyes catch on a girl in one of the tables in the corner. I’ve seen her at this cafe before actually. She’s a regular, too, and the familiarity draws me in. She’s wearing all black and heeled boots that look like they’re made of real suede. Who the fuck wears heeled boots on purpose when it’s storming? And who the fuck wears suede in the snow? She is extremely focused on whatever she’s typing on her laptop and her blunt haircut and (frankly amazing) dark eyebrows make her look completely unapproachable.

I find myself filled with desire to approach her anyway. I take offense to anyone possibly disliking me and she really seems the type. Also, no one should be that focused. She might lose herself.

Or maybe it’s something else. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to pay that much attention to something in my life. I don’t think anyone has ever paid that much attention to me in my life. Maybe I’m jealous.

She’s only sitting a few tables away from me so I unplug my computer and take it over to her. When I sit down across from her and rap on the table like a door, she finally breaks her gaze from her computer screen. She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t remove her earbuds either. She’s looking at me like she might eat me alive on the spot. Those stupidly pretty eyebrows pull down over dark grey eyes.

I ignore her glare. I did softball and powderpuff in high school; I'm used to mean glares. And I am utterly devoted to getting food. Nothing gets me talking like food.

“Hey would you be willing to watch my computer? I need to get some food. Badly.”

She deepens her glare, still silent. I smile.

“Right, thanks, I’ll even share with you when I get back. This place does great fries despite mostly being a coffee shop.” I tap the table twice more as I get up to leave, which provokes an eye roll from pretty eyebrow girl. I’m not sure why I trust her despite the fact that she never actually answered me, but I do. She is dressed too nicely to be a thief. And her computer is way better than mine, new and sleek and silver. Maybe that’s why my instinct told me to interrupt her.

I return with a sandwich and an order of fries (alongside my steamed milk, of course). I’m pleased to see that the girl with the dumb boots brought my bag over to her side to keep it safe. Even with all her frowning. She also removes an earbud as I sit back down. I beam at her. She returns a cold stare and a raised eyebrow. Why am I paying so much attention to her eyebrows?

“Thanks for watching my stuff,” I stick out my hand to her, “my name is Simone.” She glances at my hand and back up at me. I wiggle my fingers around, hand still extended. I will not let this girl get away with unfriendliness in this town. “What’s your name, then?”

The girl finally gives in and shakes my hand very briefly before dropping it. “I’m Basima.” She has a funny accent. I’m shit at accents so I have no idea where it’s from. She doesn’t really look white either so I try extra hard not to assume. I know lots of people are shitty racists here.

“Basima. That’s got a nice sound to it. Want a fry? I was serious about sharing.” I offer her a fingerful of my fries.

She looks at me in disgust before taking one single fry from my plate instead of the ones I’m holding. “Yes. Thanks.”

I frown and take a bite out of all three fries in my hand. Her thanks really don’t sound genuine. “What were you so focused on anyway? Before I interrupted.”

“I’m writing. And you’re still interrupting,” Basima says, but she takes another fry from my plate, so I count that a win.

“Hm. I think you could have been more vague with that answer.” I pick up my sandwich and take a large bite.

One of Basima’s eyebrows travels so far up her forehead I instinctively glance above her head under the assumption that there must be a string attached to it, dragging it toward the ceiling. I’m pretty sure she’s holding back a smile, though, so I think I’m successfully bullying her into friendliness. I decide to offer up some information about myself. It can be a push and pull, right? That’s what conversation is.

“I’m here working on the script for my submittal for senior film. I study film and photography.” I pause in case she decides to reply. She just sneers, so I keep pestering. “What are you studying, then, Basima?”

She sighs. “I’m studying mechanical and electrical engineering.”

“So are you writing a paper?” I say through a mouthful of sandwich.

“I am not.” I ignore another look of disgust.

“Well, what are you writing, then?”

“Do you always talk with your mouth full?” she deflects.

“Yeah. Are you always so rude to friendly people in cafes?”

“Yes, especially when they invite themselves to join me at my table after breaking my focus.” She does have a point, so I concede. Kind of.

“Fuck off.” I roll my eyes. “We’re friendly in this town. You should probably get used to it.”

Basima makes a face at me. And runs a hand back through her hair. “I know. It’s horrid. Almost as bad as the weather here. I question why I chose to study abroad here at least daily.”

I pause for a moment. Basima must wear excellent perfume, because the smell that wafts over to me when she runs her hand through her hair is _divine_.

“Um. I guess. I’m from Alaska actually, so winter here’s not so bad in comparison.” I shrug. It’s true. I actually really like winter here. The snow is beautiful. I like it best when it’s light and fresh and blanketing the world in soft clean white. Or when it sparkles in the sunshine and squeaks under my boots.

I notice that Basima has fallen silent, so I finish my bite of sandwich and gesture to my fries again (she takes one.)

“Where are you from, since you’re studying abroad?”

“I was studying in London, but my family is from Hampshire.” So her accent is British, then? I must be making a confused face because she rolls her eyes and clarifies, “Hampshire is south of London. It’s about an hour by train.”

“So pretty close,” I state. My uncle lives in the state capital here, which is one of the closer cities to my college town. It’s over three hours away by car.

Basima hums doubtfully and tilts her head. “Not really by English standards. But I have been living here long enough that I know what you mean. You can’t get anywhere in only an hour.”

“Tell me about it. I don’t have a car, so I have to bike if I want to go anywhere. Bikes don’t get you too far.” Basima looks at me, horrified. Her mouth is open and I notice her teeth kind of pointy. Like a vampire’s.

“How do you survive this place without a car?” I take offense to how she says  _‘this place’_ like it's cursed, but I don’t really know how to answer her. I just survive. I always have. I shrug as a response instead and take another bite of my sandwich. This provokes another roll of her eyes. I change the subject instead.

“Hey, completely unrelated question: How the fuck do you get your eyebrows like that?”

“Like what?” She raises just one eyebrow again. I bet she had to practice that.

“You know,” I gesture at her face with my fingerful of fries, searching for the words. “All, uh... perfect?”

She flashes a smile at me and I feel a swoopy feeling in my chest like when I used to get mobbed by the softball team after a game-winning hit (I was quite good at softball.) And then she answers.

 

* * *

 

 

**Baz**

 

I recognise her. I mean of course I do. When your campus crush-from-afar knocks rudely on your table, you take notice. She comes to Roma almost as often as I do and makes a mess of an entire table every time.

Despite her rude introduction, Simone has managed to get me quite distracted from my writing. This _might_ be due to the fact that I am extremely gay and her freckles and moles are a spiritual experience. I have never seen her this close, so I’m drinking her up while I can. There’s a big freckle right on the edge of her top lip. Not like Marilyn Monroe. Actually along the edge of her lip. It makes them kind of uneven and thinking this much about her mouth is a bad decision. I’m out of control. And when I lose control I lash out.

“You couldn’t get your eyebrows to look like this if you worked at it for hours. They’re a mess.” The smile that’s been constantly (annoyingly, fucking _gorgeously_ ) on her face since she began eating, finally drops.

“Oh my god, do you have to be so shitty? I just called your eyebrows perfect.” She blushes as she frowns and rubs at her own eyebrows. (They are ridiculous, but her face would look wrong if she groomed them like I do.) She sends me one final dirty look as she slams her laptop shut and stalks out the door with her bag on one shoulder and her sandwich in her hand. What a disaster.

(I finish her fries.)


	2. dead mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simone sits at Baz's table at Roma a few more times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is not done yet, but I could not resist posting!
> 
> [Cafe Roma Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/abatha123/playlist/3UH3dhs2L4LX0PDV5VlYNM?si=taj60ayWQPqj8_y1GSqgAA)

**Baz**

I’m sitting in Café Roma the next weekday I have some free time to write again. I’ve been making excellent progress recently and am so focused I think my drink has gone cold. I nearly jump out of my seat when someone slams into the seat across from me, placing a steaming cup right next to my cold one. It’s Simone. Of course. 

I whip and earbud out and manage a glare despite how she surprised me. I’m considerably adept at acting composed. I had to practice constantly as a child.

“I’m sitting here now,” is all she says to answer my glare before she tilts up the screen of her laptop in between us. She hasn’t given me another option, and I don’t actually want her to leave, so I try and go back to my writing. 

After about an hour of working at the same table, I have a class to get to, so I start packing up. Simone glances at me as I do, but she stays in her seat and keeps typing. Her brow is wrinkled and she doesn’t look at me again as I leave without a word. 

 

Simone interrupts another of my long Saturday writing sessions at the cafe the next week, offering me only a nod of acknowledgement before starting her own work. At my table. I don’t work well with her there. I’m constantly distracted, but I can’t give in. We’re in a war of silence and I refuse to be the first to break, no matter how much I’d like to. No matter how much she deserves an apology from me. I’m shit at apologies and I will own up to that. Just not aloud.

 

She keeps doing it. She keeps finding my table when I’m at Roma. I’ve hardly gotten any writing done all month. Somehow I’m always there before she is. I’ve been subconsciously leaving extra space, expecting her to join. She nearly always does, but we haven’t broken our silence since that first day. I’m determined not to break it. It’s become a competition and I _always_ win.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Simone is at my table again. She’s working with both her feet up on an extra chair and her laptop tilted across her bent knees. I refuse to believe that’s a comfortable position. And her hair is in her eyes, which should nearly blind her considering how thick and curly it is. It’s wild and is shining like bronze in the sun coming through the front windows of the cafe. I am completely engrossed in her. 

I think she must be storyboarding a scene because she has a very weird looking pen thing that she’s attempting to use on her laptop screen despite the fact that the keyboard is in her way. The tip of her tongue is stuck between her teeth in concentration.

If I’m not already dead, this moronic girl across from me just sucked out the last bit of my brain through a simple flash of her tongue. I haven’t written a word in at least ten minutes. I think if I could start again I would spout fucking _poetry_. (I wrote a sonnet last week when she fell asleep at our table.)

Simone’s hand darts out to grab her cup and she takes a sip without looking up from her screen. That’s when I notice she has _my_ cup in her hand.

“Ah fuck!” She nearly spits out the mouthful she took. “That is not my drink.” She looks angrily at my cup for a moment, then it turns to confusion. “Do people call you Baz?” And just like that, our war of silence is over. Of course I won. I always win.

“Yes,” I say, and hold my hand out for my coffee, “that is why it’s written on my cup. Far harder to misspell than Basima. You Americans are shit at spelling names from other cultures.” I’m drunk on the feeling of speaking to her again. I might have said too much.

Simone mirrors my frown and hands me back my drink. Maybe it wasn’t the best for the first thing I say to her after weeks of silence to be so antagonistic.

“I suppose we are pretty shitty with foreign names. I just thought— I mean. Basima seems-” she keeps stopping herself and frowning down at her hands. I wait for her to find the end of her sentence, but I don’t think she will on her own. I worry for a moment that her side of the silence might have been due to nerves. (Which cheapens my own spiteful, competitive silence.)

“What? Something about my name?” It comes out sharper than I intend. Simone is trying to be considerate and I want her to keep talking to me. I try to soften and smile.

She flinches, so that was counterproductive. “Sorry. I- I was going to say I don’t think your name is very hard to say. Or spell, probably. And I also kind of wanted to ask where it came from. But I bet a lot of people are insensitive about that around here. I don’t want you— I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I know you don’t really know me.”

I frown and look back at my screen to avoid her gaze because she’s right. People have been weird about my name here. And my skin color sometimes. But that's not exclusive to my time in America. 

Simone and I have sat together regularly for the past month. That means something to me. I'm not sure why but she feels more familiar than someone who I’ve only talked to once before should. Something about her feels like home. So I let her in a bit more.

“It’s Arabic. My name. My mum was Egyptian.” I realize my mistake immediately.

“Was?” 

_Fuck._ I clear my throat. But I’ve already said it. I can't just lie about my mother. But I don’t have to say everything. People act differently around me when they find out she was killed in front of me. And saying that might be stepping over one too many lines. (Simone has been stepping over my lines since I met her, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to return the favor yet.)

“She died when I was little.” I school my face into indifference. This is one of the few things for which I do lose control of my emotions, but I have had a lot of practice pretending it didn’t happen.

“I’m sorry,” she says. I look her in the eye. She’s looking at me like she knows. “My mom died giving birth to me. I didn’t even know who she was until I was 18. By then I could get more information from the state of Alaska and I found out myself.”

It takes me a moment to respond. “Oh. That— I can’t really imagine. I got to know my mother, at least.” I can’t even look at her. I don’t know how she’s so easily open with me. “I'm sorry, too,” I finally whisper. She smiles. I can only blink back at her, my mask of indifference hanging by a thread. That smile. She’s like the fucking sun. And I’m Icarus— unable to resist chasing her down.

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s worse,” she shrugs, “I never really knew what I lost. But thanks.”

I can only press my lips together and nod in response. 

Simone looks back at the coffee I’m still holding and gestures at it. “What hellishly sweet thing did I just take an unwelcome gulp of, anyway?”

I sneer at her, although I am grateful for the subject change. I think we both needed it. “Are you one of those people who only drinks black coffee?”

“No. I’m drinking steamed milk with cinnamon, actually.”

“And you think _that_ is better than my Pumpkin Mocha Breve?” 

“A Pumpkin Mocha what?” she pauses, “Oh Baz, you didn’t...” _She called me Baz._ Her mouth drops open and her eyes lock on to mine. Her eyes are plain blue, a little pouchy with Uni Exhaustion. The only part of her that isn’t blindingly gorgeous. But I think that’s part of the charm. Something about her had to be normal. “You made up a name for your own drink, didn’t you?”

I straighten my back and glare right back at her. (I’m not sure I could look away if I tried.) “I certainly did. I come here often enough and it’s shorter than instructing a new barista every time. Now they all know.”

“Wow,” her mouth is still open. I wonder idly if anyone ever taught her to close it. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Really? That’s more ridiculous than a— how old are you, 21? 22?” 

“22,” she answers. She’s the same age as I am. 

“My drink is sillier than a 22-year-old purposefully buying warm milk at a coffee shop?” 

Simone narrows her eyes and closes her mouth (finally.) “You might have a point. But your Pumpkin spice bravo-whatever-”

“Pumpkin Mocha Breve.”

“Yeah, that. Your thing tastes like twelve sugars and half a pumpkin pie decided to kidnap a tablespoon of coffee!” Simone throws her hands into the air, grinning. It’s adorably dramatic.

I accidentally let out a snort of laughter, which I can’t bring myself to regret. She is smiling at me.

“I may not look it, but I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” I concede.

“Yeah,” She tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes, waving a hand at my entire person. “You don’t really give off that ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’ vibe.” 

I gasp and place a hand on my chest. “Are you saying I’m not feminine?”

Simone rolls her eyes, lips twitching into a smile. “You’re definitely sugary and spicy judging by the crap you put in your body. That third one, though.” She purses her lips and tilts her head and the urge to kiss her rears up violently inside me. I lean back in my seat in case my body decides to betray me and jump her across the table. “Let’s just say you probably won’t make Santa’s nice list.”

I nod solemnly. “But do I make _your_ nice list?” I guess I’m just openly flirting now. Leaning back did nothing, my mouth has betrayed me. I’ve lost my mind, flirting with a straight girl I barely know. And in _public_. 

Simone narrows her eyes, examining me. “Yes, I’d say you do.”

“Oh,” I’m genuinely surprised by this. “Really? I don’t think I’ve been very nice to you.” I pause, “at least I haven’t tried to be. I was mostly trying to scare you off the first time so I could get back to writing.”

“And yet,” she spreads her hands, palm up, on the table between us, “I kept coming back.”

“I’m sure that has more to do with your stubbornness than my warm welcoming presence," I sneer.

“You never stole my computer, though. No matter how many times I left to get food.”

“That is a very low bar, Simone. And who would want to steal _that_?” I nod toward her clunky old laptop. “Our resident thief would get much money for your paperweight.” 

“Excuse me? Ruth here has served me faithfully through nearly three years of college!”

“You bash me for naming my drink something that sounds like a drink when you call your computer a person name. Hypocrite.” I shake my head. She laughs. I made her laugh. It feels like the best thing I’ve done all year.

“Fuck off.” She’s smiling this time when she says this, so I’m pretty sure I’ve won the argument.

“Why did you ask me to watch your things that day, anyway? I actively try to discourage people from talking to me, but they continue to interrupt regardless of my precautions.” I am genuinely curious about this. I would love for no one but Simone to interrupt me ever again.

“Oh, well sorry if I keep bothering you.” Simone is frowning again, and I’m afraid I might have actually hurt her feelings.

“No, you’re not the problem,” I say quickly, and notice some tension dropping from her shoulders. “I’d just like to hear your perspective so I can improve my unfriendly vibe and stave off anyone _else_ disrupting my work in the future.”

“Hmm,” Simone grins wickedly, “you may have to change tactics, then. I approached you specifically because you looked so unfriendly. We do take offense to that here.”

That answer is... utterly infuriating. I pout. “That’s... not fair.” Simone just shrugs, which is even more infuriating. Shrugging is not a real answer.

I respond anyway, pointing at her, “You shouldn’t generalize yourself with people here, anyway. You are from Alaska!”

“I can generalize all I want. It’s all small town America. And I have lived here for almost five years now. I’m assimilated.”

I look at her and curl my lip. “No one here has any respect. Honestly.” 

“I take offense to that,” Simone says through a bite of the scone she bought earlier. I look away and pick up my phone to avoid watching her horrid table manners. They somehow manage to be simultaneously endearing and disgusting, which is overwhelming. Checking my phone, unfortunately, brings me to the realization that I have to leave.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter at my phone, which is showing me several angry texts from Fiona.

“What?”

“I have to go I think.”

“You have to or you think?”

“Fuck off, that’s pedantic.” I feel like I’ve lost the argument with this response, but I apparently shouldn’t underestimate Simone’s idiocy.

“I don’t even know what that means,” she says. 

I frown at her. “It means you are an idiot.” (Which is close enough to the truth.)

“That doesn’t sound right but I’m not in a place to say otherwise.” I know my mouth is twitching with the effort of not smiling, but I keep my composure (mostly.)

“I-,” I glance down at my phone again, “I really do need to go.” _‘I’m so glad you broke our silence,’_ I almost say. Instead, I start to pack up, avoiding her eyes.

“Actually, I kind of need to head out, too.” Simone begins haphazardly tossing her supplies and computer into her bag.

“Wow. I’m surprised Ruth survived so many years with that kind of treatment.”

“Fuck off,” she says, but she’s grinning and still standing next to me as we walk out the door.


	3. full names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simone figures some things out, Baz opens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little side note: Simone's ex-boyfriend is named Evander Wellbelove instead of some male name that sounds like Agatha because the two names have the same meaning and similar origins (Greek, meaning 'good'.) I felt like that was more important for this story. Also, I kept Penny's canon gender because in this specific gender swap, I feel like the only other character that needed a gender swap was Agatha so Simone/Simon's previous relationship was hetero.
> 
> Art is now up for this fic in this chapter! Head to my [tumblr](https://hufflepunky.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fanart) to see more of my fanart :)
> 
> [Cafe Roma Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/abatha123/playlist/3UH3dhs2L4LX0PDV5VlYNM?si=taj60ayWQPqj8_y1GSqgAA)

 

[](https://imgur.com/HdxcBBI)

 

**Simone**

‘Fuck off’ is what I say when I know I’ve lost an argument. I don’t mind losing this one though. Not to Baz. I think we’re friends, now. We must be. I’m only willing to lose arguments to people I like. And I’ve decided I like her despite the prickly exterior. I’m weirdly comfortable with her. It just took me a few weeks to work up the nerve to talk to her again. 

I’m still determined to get her to show me how she does her eyebrows. She’s right that mine will never be like that, but that’s not why I was interested. I think I want to _watch_ her do her eyebrows. God knows why. I don’t usually understand my own impulses. This is the point where I would ask Penny if she was here. But she isn’t.

I don’t actually have anywhere to be right now. I do want to keep talking to Baz, though. And leaving with her seems like the best way to do that. So I do.

“Which way are you headed?” I ask once we’re outside. It’s snowing, but the wind is still, so it’s mostly just beautiful, not miserable. Baz is frowning and she wraps her long scarf around her neck and up over her chin like a nest for her head. She finishes a text, points left, and starts to pull on black leather gloves. All I have are pockets, so I shove my hands in and start walking, letting the soft snowflakes settle on my head. When it melts, my hair will be even frizzier than usual, but I forgot a hat today, so my hair is the best ear warmer I have.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’ve been writing at Roma?” Baz’s eyes flash over to me. She hasn’t smiled since we’ve been out in the weather. I guess she did say she hated the cold.

“Maybe.” She shivers a bit and huddles down further into her scarf. Her nose disappears, and I can tell she’s avoiding my question. I’ll allow it for now. “You are mad if you don’t think this is too cold for human life.” It comes out muffled through her scarf, but I catch her drift.

“Did you know...” I start, then shake some of the snow out of my hair at her, grinning. “The atmosphere warms up a few degrees when precipitation happens. So snow is a sign that it’s warmer outside.”

“Why do you know that? Do you just love snow so much you have all these ‘science facts’ lined up to defend it.” Baz pulls her gloved hands out of her pockets to air quote around ‘science facts.’ She is quite dedicated to being an asshole.

“Snow is my _literal_ middle name. Also, I resent the way you just implied that my actual science fact was not real science. My roommate told me that, and she’s an engineer like you.”

“What the fuck kind of middle name is _‘Snow’_?” I seem to have surprised an actual emotion out of Baz this time, which is nice. She’s like an ice queen and sometimes I wonder why I’ve kept joining her at her table all this time. “Wait, are you fucking with me right now? Is that your actual middle name? You do know what literal means, yes?”

It _is_ my actual middle name. I really like it. It’s a little silly and it comes from my mom. “Yeah, it is my middle name.” I know I sound defensive, but I care about this. “I used Snow as my last name for most of my time in the system because Simone Snow was all that was written on the papers I was left with. Eventually, when I found my mom, I found her brother, too. He told me that it was a thing in their family— giving weird middle names. So when I was nineteen I legally changed my name to Simone Snow Salisbury. Salisbury was my mom’s last name. And I think she would have liked the alliteration.” I look down at my feet at this. “But you’re right that it’s weird. It’s just... weird on purpose.”

Baz stopped walking at some point during my explanation, so I stop with her and turn. She pokes her whole face back out of her scarf mountain. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have implied that. I like your name.” I smile and I know I’m getting more and more snow in my hair, but I don’t mind.

Baz tilts her head, “Simone Snow Sssalisbury,” she says. It sounds beautiful in her voice, even when she hisses the ‘s.’ I know I’m blushing when she steps back toward me and grabs the hand I’d taken out of my pocket to gesture when I was explaining. This is the first time she’s touched me, I think. It’s nice, even through her gloves.

“It’s better than my name,” she says, and looks down at our hands.

“What? It’s better than Basima? Isn’t Basima from your mom, too?”

“Yes it is. I like Basima. It’s just the rest...” She trails off and makes a face like she wished she hadn’t told me that. Like what she looked like when she used the past tense talking about her mother.

“Now you have to tell me.” I grin up at her and squeeze her hand, which makes her let go. I put my hands back in my pockets for warmth, but find that I’d rather be cold and holding Baz’s hand.

“Basima is my middle name.” She brings a hand up to rub at her forehead, where a wrinkle has appeared between her eyebrows. “My full name is Tyrannus Basima Grimm-Pitch.”

“Oh my god Baz. You sound like a villain. Or maybe a vampire. Is that why you’re so prickly? You have to fulfill your blood-sucking villainous destiny?” I try to stop myself from laughing, but I know I’m sputtering. Thankfully, Baz is still smiling at me.

“What if I say yes, _Snow_?” I can’t help bursting into laughter at this. I lean forward and grab Baz’s forearm to steady myself. “Oh shut up, would you,” she says, but she’s still grinning. “They’re family names and my parents decided to name me Tyrannus no matter my gender. No one ever calls me that, thank fuck.” Baz shudders a bit under my cold fingers.

I decide I like touching her, so I link my arm with hers before sticking my hand back in my (gloriously warm) pocket and beginning to walk again. She freezes for a moment, which makes my arm tug, but then she’s by my side. Her complexion is just light enough that her cheeks and nose are noticeably rosy from cold, so she ducks her face back into her scarf and looks down at me. She must be at least six feet tall in her heels. I think she’d have a few inches on me even without them and I’m not exactly small. I smile and stick my tongue out to catch a snowflake. I can tell from the crinkle of her eyes that Baz is smiling, too.

“So why did you have to leave the cafe so suddenly?” I ask.

“My aunt and I were supposed to have lunch, which we’ve now pushed off to dinner instead. I said I was caught up in writing because I would prefer not to admit an annoying Alaskan distracted me.” I snort.

“Is your aunt visiting, then?”

“No, I actually live with her here. She used to be in Chicago, but when my father...” She pauses to glance at me and our eyes meet. “When he cut me off, she decided to move here and help support me.” I unconsciously move a little closer to Baz at this admission, so I only have to whisper when I ask her why he cut her off.

“You don’t have to tell me, but I’m up for listening,” I add. I want her to trust me. We may have just started talking, but she feels like home.

“It’s not something I keep very quiet about, actually. I’m a lesbian and he isn’t a fan of that. Some bullshit about carrying on the family legacy properly.” She shakes her head and I furrow my brow. That’s not really a reason to cut off your own child. Baz is looking at me again and there’s something different in her eyes I haven’t seen yet. I think she’s scared.

I squeeze her arm to try and give her some comfort. “That’s a really shitty thing for a dad to do to their kid, but I’m glad you still have family to go to.” She relaxes and snuggles back into her scarf, which makes her hair poof out. It’s the least elegant thing she’s done since I met her and it’s pretty fucking adorable. I feel like I can’t look away.

“Yeah Fiona’s pretty great. She’s my closest connection to my mum. And she’s bi, which adds to my father’s annoyance at how well I’m doing here.”

“Bi?” I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but I’m not sure enough to figure out what it means fully. Is it another kind of gay?

Baz looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “Yes. Bisexual. She dates people of both... well multiple genders, really. You don’t know what that is?” I flush with embarrassment.

My education was pretty broken up because I moved so much as a kid and never really had parental figures to explain anything. Sometimes I run into things that I’m really behind on that everyone else seems to know about. “Ah... nobody ever taught me about this kind of stuff.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Baz readjusts her arm in mine so we’re walking even closer. “If you want to ask any questions, I can try and answer. Or I can give you a book or two to read if you would like.” I don’t think anyone other than Penny has offered to help me like that.

“Thanks, yeah,” I say, and then I start thinking, which a whole process for me. I think Baz can tell I have more to say because she waits as we walk arm in arm.

“Can I-” I pause to formulate my words. I want to get this right. “Can I ask how you knew you liked girls?”

“Yes, of course. I offered.” Baz looks away from me and we cross a street together. “I never had a boy phase like my friends. For a while I thought I was just more discerning and mature, but then all of us at my public school hit puberty. And I discovered I’m mad for girls.”

“Yeah, but how could you tell, really?” Baz bites her lip in thought.

“I fancied my friend. She helped me realize. I wanted to be close to her, physically, emotionally, all that. She was so beautiful and I wanted to touch her and kiss her and-” Baz stops, and I’m pretty sure she’s redder than she was from just the cold.

 _Baz is beautiful._ I blink several times, a little shocked to realize that’s not a new thought. She’s blushing and we’re touching and her black hair is curling and softening with the moisture of the snow and she is _gorgeous_. Maybe half the reason I couldn’t talk to Baz for weeks wasn’t that she's sharp and scary. (She is.) Maybe it's because I _like_ her.

“Oh. That’s... yeah. I-hmmm.” _I’m not ready to finish that sentence yet._ Baz takes the arm her right arm out of her pocket and squeezes my arm that’s through hers with her gloved hand. It’s comforting and helps me think.

“Why do you ask that, Simone?” Baz asks me softly. I think I’m figuring out why right now, too, so I turn forward to consider her question. I hum a little again to let her know I heard her, but I’m a slow thinker so I look at the sidewalk ahead of us and let Baz guide me as we walk.

I’ve never really questioned if I could be anything other than straight. I spent so much of my life trying to be normal to survive. I’ve dated guys before and had one serious boyfriend. Our breakup was amicable, but fairly recent, so I’m not sure I’m done processing it. I was stuck in a rut for a long time of assuming we would end up happy and normal and married. But neither of us would have _actually_ been happy with that. (And I’ve accepted I’m far from normal.)

After a minute, I’m still not sure what to say, but I don’t want to leave Baz in silence for too long, so I just try and explain. “Now that I think about it, I don’t even know if I’m straight. My friend Evander and I were a couple for a long time, but we’re much better as just friends.” I click my tongue as I think back on the end of my relationship with Evan again. Baz stays silent as I think, but our arms are still linked as she turns us down a side street toward campus. “I’m really glad it worked out for Evan and I to remain friends, but I always assumed I would end up with him. And now that I know I won’t, I don’t really know what to think.”

“You don’t have to know, Snow.” I feel a zing at the use of my middle name. No one else calls me that, but I love my middle name.

“I don’t?”

“Figuring out my sexuality was pretty easy for me. Well, not easy exactly, but it _was_ simple. I know it’s not for everybody. It took Fiona years.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You could come over and ask her about it some time.”

“Really? You don’t think she would mind?”

“Well,” Baz pauses and looks away. “She might be a bit miffed that I outed her to a stranger.”

“That you what?”

“That I told you she was bi. That’s usually something you tell people yourself.”

“I- oh.”

“Don’t worry,” she pats my arm again, “she will mostly be mad at me. And as soon as she hears you didn’t know what ‘bisexual’ was, she will understand. She might poke fun at you a little, but if you have survived me for this long, Fiona should be no trouble.” I laugh a little at this and Baz smiles at me fondly.

“Thank you, Baz. I-- people usually make me feel stupid about this kind of thing.”

“They shouldn’t,” Baz frowns, “being naive is not stupid. It’s not even in your control considering how you were raised.” I feel nice and warm next to her. It’s more than just temperature.

“Thanks.”

“Not that I can presume to know much about how you were raised considering...”

“What? Considering we’ve only talked once before today?”

“Yes. That.” Baz clears her throat.

“I’ve talked to you more about things that matter today than I talked to Evan the entire time we were together,” I say. And it’s true. I’m not good with words, usually. Something about Baz gets me talking.

“Oh,” she squeaks. We both look ahead, blushing. I realize I compared Baz directly to my ex. Favorably compared her to my ex, but still awkward. I’m not good with awkward silences. I tend to interrupt them with something stupid. So I think back to the last thing Baz avoided. I might as well fully redirect us so I don’t have to keep feeling so stupid for bringing Evan into this.

“What were you writing at Roma?” I ask. She’s been trying not to talk to me about that since the first day I asked her to watch my stuff.

Baz’s face drops into a glare, but it’s not malicious. “Do _not_ think that you can surprise that out of me.”


	4. phone numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some music and some memes and not enough writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished this chapter!! It took me forever but I spent this last week with a bunch of queer women and honestly that's the most inspiring environment I've ever experienced, so. Also, I did art for this fic and it's posted now on [chapter 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888075/chapters/42815261). Thank you all for reading and commenting <3 
> 
>  
> 
> [Cafe Roma Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/abatha123/playlist/3UH3dhs2L4LX0PDV5VlYNM?si=taj60ayWQPqj8_y1GSqgAA)

**Baz**

When we reach the library on campus, Simone finally pulls away from me. I miss her immediately. She was warm. My trousers are fleece lined, but I’m still never warm enough in this god-forsaken town. 

I think she must be headed into the library, but instead she shouts, “Penny!” and runs up to a short girl with wild purple curls and absurd red cat-eye glasses exiting the library and engulfs her in a hug. Simone grabs her arm and pulls her over to me.

“Pen, I haven’t seen you in days!” She says as they approach. 

“I know Si, it’s this fucking O-Chem midterm.” And then they’re right there in front of me. Seeing Simone with her arm through someone else’s cheapens all the time she spent with her arm through mine. I berate myself for thinking just because she told me she wasn’t straight she was into me. I am quite attractive, but she’s just figuring out her sexuality, and she may never feel that way about me. 

Simone clears her throat. “Baz, this is my roommate, Penny. Penny, this is Baz. We met at Roma.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve told me about her, right?” Penny says. Simone is looking at the ground and blushing. “The mean eyebrow girl.” Penny’s eyes flick over me in distrust. 

“She’s not as mean as I thought.” Simone’s eyes flick up to meet mine so I raise one eyebrow. 

Penny narrows her eyes and looked between us.

“Thanks for the strong defense, Snow,” I drawl, rolling my eyes, but I hold my hand out to Penny. “Good to meet you.”

Penny still looks suspicious, but she shakes my hand. “Did you really just call her ‘Snow?’”

“Yes,” I say. Penny looks at me hard, then shakes her head and turns to Simone. 

“I’m off to the NAH,” Penny says, referring to the main engineering building on campus.

“Oh. Baz, is that where you were going?” Simone asked as we fell into step to continue slowly across the center of campus. I open my mouth to answer but Penny interrupts.

“Are you studying engineering, too, then?”

I nod. “Yes. Mechanical and electrical. You?” 

Penny looks like she is impressed. I am a marvel. “Bioengineering,” she says. I raise my eyebrows, equally impressed. 

Simone seems to have tuned out our academic dick measuring because she just rolls her eyes and waves a hand in the air, dispelling our mutual respect and returning our attention to the matter at hand. “So what’s the verdict? NAH or nah? Ha!”

“That joke was only funny once, Simone,” Penny deadpans.

“No actually,” I reply, “I was heading to Howard.”

“Howard?” Penny asks. 

“Yeah, Pen, the music building. I can’t believe you’ve been here for four years sometimes.” Simone answers. “Wait, Baz. Do you play? Oh shit, do you have a third major? Why didn’t you tell me? What do you play?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Snow.”

She nods. “So are you going to answer any of them?” I flit my gaze over to Penny. I would rather not expose too much around her yet. But I suppose that my violin playing isn’t too much. 

“I play violin. It’s not my major, but I used to play with the chamber orchestra and the professors still let me use the practice rooms.”

“Oh shit that’s so cool, Baz. Can I hear you play?” Simone looks at me hopefully after asking. I hesitate. I haven’t let anyone else listen to me play since I last played with the orchestra. I love playing. My mother used to love violin music and I played for her as a child. I don’t know how she could stand it when I was first learning, but I am quite good now. I hope she would be proud. 

Maybe having a singular audience again will be a good thing for me. And she is directly offering to spend more time with me. The picture of Simone and I alone in a very small room makes up my mind.

“I’ll allow it,” I sneer. Simone beams from next to me. 

“Didn’t you say you had to get back to campus for something, though? I don’t want to keep you.” I add. Simone blushes and looks away from me. Penny keeps glancing at Simone with a look of confusion. Maybe she’s acting different than her prerogative? 

“I just wanted to keep talking to you. That’s why I left with you,” Simone looks at her boots and mutters. “I don’t really have anything I need to get to.” 

“I do have _ things  _ to do,” Penny cuts in, “so I’m off to the NAH. See you later, Si. Baz.” She sends me one last searching look and turns left toward the engineering building while Simone and I keep walking toward Howard. Simone watches her stalk off into the snow before turning back to me and smiling. Which manages to keep me warm until we make it to Howard.

  
  


When we make it down to the practice rooms, I retrieve my violin from my locker. It was my grandfather’s violin. I brought it across the ocean on my lap in its case the entire 8-hour flight. So I set it carefully on the low table along the wall of the tiny room. Simone is loitering behind me and I turn once I’m in the room and push the music stand to the side to make room for her.

“You can take the chair if you’d like. I prefer standing to play.” She steps into the room cautiously and glances around. She sets her bag down by the chair before turning back to me. I have to take my jacket and scarf off to play, but these practice rooms are always warm. That’s another thing I love about being here.

We’re only a step away from each other and it’s even more noticable how much taller I am than she is. I’m taller than most women naturally, and my customary heels add several inches. She’s looking up at me and she has to tilt her head a bit from this close. The temptation to lean down and close the distance between us is lurking at the back of my mind. I quash it as best I can and turn away to close the door as she takes the seat I offered. 

I open the violin case and uncover the instrument, placing the soft protective cloth to the side. The routine of caring for my violin calms my mind as I unhook the bow from its place and rhythmically run rosin across the horsehair. I glance toward Simone and find her still staring. I can’t figure out what the look on her face means. 

“Why do you want to hear me play?” I ask. I pick up my instrument and hold it lightly by the neck, my bow now in my right hand. 

Simone opens her mouth but no sound comes out. I wait a beat, then bring my violin up to my shoulder, resting it there, but keeping my bow by my side. She watches the movement before her eyes flick back to my face. I don’t give in to the silence and just keep staring down at her instead. I like looking at her.

“I dunno really,” she finally says, accompanying it with a full body shrug. I roll my eyes, but I don’t think I’ll be getting anything else out of her now. I straighten and take a deep breath to release any remaining tension in my hands. The picture of my mother sitting perfectly, her hands folded in her lap, lingers in my mind. It clashes so clearly with the picture of Simone, directly in front of me, slouching forward, elbows on her knees, one bootlace nearly untied. I can’t decide how to feel, so I close my eyes to try and refocus and raise my bow to the strings of my instrument. 

I don’t play with sheet music much anymore. Learning new songs isn’t as relaxing as feeling out the old ones with the muscle memory in my fingers and the melodies in my ears. I used to collect new songs from our family library every time I went home, but I might not be able to do that again, so I have to keep the ones I know fresh.

I start with a piece my great-grandfather wrote. It’s one I remember my mother loving and I practice it every time I play. It’s one of the few things about her I have control of remembering well.

I’m so caught up in playing that I forget for a moment that I have an audience. I have to transition from A to A minor for the next song I want to play so I slow down to improvise a transition. One thing I have always regretted not practicing more is composing and playing by ear, so I use the transitions between my songs to just feel how the music wants to be. I open my eyes to meet Simone’s. The strangeness of someone listening to my normally private practice startles me enough that I stop playing. I let my bow fall back to my side, careful not to let the fragile tip hit the ground.

“Why did you stop?” she asks quietly.

“I forgot you were here.” I say. At some point today, I decided I would return Snow’s honesty. It’s been strangely refreshing.

Simone laughs and it sounds better than anything I’ve played. She’s shaking her head and looks away from me. “I don’t understand how you get so into things. Your writing at the café. Your music just now.  You’re so focused. Single-minded.”

“Hmm,” I acknowledge. “I suppose. You distracted me just now.” I blush and clear my throat as soon as I finish speaking. Something about Simone keeps making me reveal more about myself than I plan to, even when I’m trying to be more forthcoming. Simone just smiles up at me. It’s the most brilliant thing I have ever seen. “I’m going to keep playing now,” I say and I miraculously manage to maintain a straight face. She nods and I lift my bow back to the strings.

  
  


Snow stays quiet and I get lost in the music again. 

  
  
  


After our little music ‘date,’ Simone gives me her number. It takes me a day or two to work up the nerve to actually text her but I don’t want to insult her by waiting too long. Once I resolve to text her, all I end up sending is my name. Even that, I overthink to an absurd degree. 

  
  


I’m at my favorite table in the back of Café Roma the next day, attempting to finish a report for my thesis project so I can work on my story over the weekend. I’ve placed my scarf over the open seat and brought my large over-ear headphones. The combination of the two has proven more effective than my earbud method in my quest to stay uninterrupted. 

My phone buzzes on the table beside my computer and I’m pulled out of my writing haze.

**_Snow_ ** _ : ha. i put u in my phone as a evil name  _

[](https://imgur.com/nuSoWby)

 

I’m both thrilled and horrified at her response. I can usually tolerate other people using shortened language when they text with me even though smartphones have made such abbreviation unnecessary. But Simone is horrible. She can't even use the correct article. I don’t know how I could have expected anything different.

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : What have I done to deserve this? _

**_Snow:_ ** _ so many _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : ...Actually... is it a bad thing that I’m more insulted you’ve labeled me ‘Cafe Girl’ _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : Café has an accent, you numpty. Do you ever make sense? _

**_Snow_ ** _ : i rest my case ^^ you cant stop being villanus for even three texts smh _

I physically recoil from my phone at the latest text from Simone and have to take a few deep breaths and sips of my mocha before responding.

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : I didn’t realise this was a trial. Also, that spelling of villainous is the real crime here. I regret learning to read. _

**_Snow_ ** _ : ha tru. dontcha wish you were jared, 19 _

**_Snow_ ** _ : also if were gonna talk spelling,,, realize** ur in america now fam _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : Oh My God Kill Me Now _

**_Snow_ ** _ : ^^ Extra (tm) _

**_Snow_ ** _ : also. what is a numty and what does it mean are numptys just accentless whores? bc if so thats really me tbh _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : Oh my Fuck. Please use punctuation properly. _

**_Snow_ ** _ : ,,nO _

I don’t know how to respond to that and she’s already worked me up, so I put my phone in my bag and try to get back to my report. If my poetry folder also comes out of the session one sonnet heavier, Simone only has herself to blame.

  
  
  


Simone continues texting me meaningless drivel for the next week but I don’t see her at Café Roma. We must be just missing each other because she sends me pictures of our table (usually scattered with books and food) at least twice. Once, she sends me a picture a library study table littered with books. Penny sits across from her, curls just visible over a very large organic chemistry textbook. A blonde guy is frowning at the camera from the edge of the frame. I assume that must be Evan and it sends an uncomfortable pang through me. He looks perfect. Exactly the sort of guy someone like Simone  _ should _ marry someday.

She also sends me an appalling number of memes, only some of which I understand. Between the frustration over her texting style, the mess of feelings I have for her, and the occasional meme that actually ekes a laugh out of me, Simone has well and truly ruined my emotionless exterior whether she knows it or not.

Having conversation with Simone right at my fingertips constantly has been hell on my schedule. I’ve been working on my latest story for far too long. My audience is impatient and I don’t like to keep them waiting. I can’t have them forgetting about me. But I can’t resist Simone for long and she hasn’t texted me yet today, so I decide to just give in and text first.

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : Okay I have been delaying asking you this, but I have to know. _

_**Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch**_ :  _ I know from the screenshot the other day that you have an iPhone. Did you turn off the auto-capitalisation? How do you even do that? And more importantly: Why? _

**_Snow_ ** _ : oh yea i have an old as fuck ipone so evan jailbroke it 4 ways to sunday for me and now alot of the regular things dont work right..  _

After she sends this horrendous excuse for digital conversation, I shove my phone in my bag and try to ignore it’s continued buzzing. I don’t know why I thought that would help. It’s going to take me at least 10 minutes to get over how irrationally angry that explanation made me before I can write again. I'm not sure how I can like someone with such horrid grammar, but it's undeniable that I do like her. A lot.

I’m still fuming as I go up to the counter to pick up my drink from the counter at Roma. I manage to bite out a quick  _ ‘thanks’  _ to the barista (I recognise him but I can’t remember his name.) 

When I get back to my table my phone buzzes once again, so I take it out to find several more texts.

**_Snow_ ** _ : but i have the latest ios on my shitty old phone so whos e the real winner here _

**_Snow_ ** _ : i mostly think its  funny :))) _

**_Snow_ ** _ : it makes penny maaaad _

**_Snow_ ** _ : and it makes you even madder.... >:) _

**_Snow_ ** _ : wait your not actually mad right _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : You’re**  _

**_Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch_ ** _ : Also, no. Just writing. Need to focus. _

**_Snow_ ** _ : oh shit sry ttyl then _

**_Snow_ ** _ : wait whyd ya text me then? i would likt to point 2 the evedence above ^^ in which u clearly started this convo with like 3 questionss....... _

_**Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch** : You caught me. Wondering about your Shit Texting rendered me completely unable to focus. I had to know. _

_**Snow** : hmmmmmmmmmn.......... that sounds like maybe a lie maybe_

_**Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch** : _ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_**Snow** : oMG _

_**Snow** : bazzy ma guuuuurl is that an emoji_

_**Snow** :  RU ADMITTING TO HAVING EMOTIONS_

_**Tyrannical Badguy Grimm-Bitch** :  No. Goodbye._

 

I send this last text and wrap my phone in my scarf before setting it on the chair across from me so I won’t hear any more notifications. I take a long, soothing sip of Pumpkin Mocha Breve and open up the document with my story in it to keep writing. I’m so close to done.

  
  


I finish my penultimate chapter and lean back in my chair to stretch out my back. I was raised to have impeccable posture, but something about my writing haze makes me hunch over my laptop. I’m rolling my shoulders to loosen the knots there when I feel eyes on the back of my head. I also hear deliberately quiet breathing.

I turn. Simone is not subtle. She’s standing directly behind me, bending over my shoulder to read my screen. I shut my laptop immediately and take off my headphones.

“Snow,” I greet and raise one eyebrow. She shoots me an unfairly attractive grin and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. 

“You writing some kind of story?” She asks. She’s still grinning as she sits down across from me and hands me my scarf. She doesn’t expect the extra weight of my phone, so it falls out of the scarf and bangs on the table and Simone jumps before looking up to me and smirking. I snatch up my phone and glare back, but she seems to have gained an immunity to my animosity.

“I saw dialogue,” she redirects to my writing. “Who’s... um, Nayelia?” Simone pronounces the name  _ almost _ correctly, but I refuse to react.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Alright then. Keep your secrets,” she responds, leaning back and narrowing her eyes with a smile in a very good impression of Frodo. 

“What do I have to give you for you to stop memeing immediately and never send me one via text ever again?”

“Oh Baz, there’s not enough money in the world,” she leans forward to pat my hand and I snort and roll my eyes. “However,” she continues, and I don’t trust the mischief in her eyes, “I’d consider cutting my memes down to once a day if you tell me what you’re really writing.”

I steeple my hands in front of me and pretend to consider her offer carefully. I’ve only been keeping it secret because it annoys Simone, so this is might be a perfect time to trade it in. But I don’t want her to have fewer excuses to text me. I would rather keep pretending to be annoyed. I’m such a fucking loser. 

“I will do no such thing,” I say, flashing her a sneer. She rolls her eyes. Which is my move. Absurd. “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask.

“I came to see you.” I’m sure my heart skips a beat. This can’t be healthy. My endocrine system hasn’t been this abused since puberty. “And to convince you to come study at the library with me and Penny,” Simone continues. She glances down at her fingers, drumming lightly on the table before looking back up at me and smiling. “It’s a little sad to sit alone in a café all day, Baz.”

I narrow my eyes in an attempt to see through her insults. “You want me to help you with something, don’t you?” Simone blanches. I’ve caught her. 

“I- well. Shit.”

“Go on, Snow,” I say through a smirk, “cat got your tongue?” She only sputters more at this, so I decide to take pity on her and try to give her a genuine smile. It is not difficult.

“Simone. Don’t worry. I am good at everything. I’m sure I can help you.” I begin to pack up my laptop and let her process what she needs to say. Then when she does speak, she goes on a nice long ramble. It’s as if, in her quest to be as clear as possible, she just keeps adding words and more words and sentences eventually string together. 

“I have to write this script. Penny tries to help me. She’s always been good at helping me with math things. But writing: she’s too harsh and doesn’t let me have my voice and I just hate it. But you’re always writing here. And I know it isn’t papers, so I just thought you might be a better person for that. I’m sorry for snooping earlier. But I’m pretty sure that was some kind of story you were writing. And I just need another eye. You know? For editing. So I don't submit a bunch of shit. I want my film to be good, yeah?” Simone trails off toward the end, glancing at me self consciously.

“Of course I can help. I used to be a tutor at the writing center,” At this, Simone unleashes a gorgeous smile and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Really, Baz? Thank you.”

I nod. “Let’s go,” I manage to say at a passably normal volume. I wasn’t sure I was going to have the breath to speak at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess what Baz is actually writing?
> 
> The ambiguous campus in this story is vaguely based on the University I went to, so if you recognize anything, that would be why :)

**Author's Note:**

> Check out chapter 3 for the art that goes with this fic!
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr [@hufflepunky](http://hufflepunky.tumblr.com/)


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